


My Rebounds, My Earthquakes

by thetidesisrising



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 17:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14049225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetidesisrising/pseuds/thetidesisrising
Summary: Since returning from the woods, Ressler could not help but feel that something was horribly wrong with Liz.(or, Liz goes to the only therapist she ever needs. post 5.16)





	My Rebounds, My Earthquakes

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again babes! I apologize for the absence once again, but I finally caught up with the Blacklist last night and got a snow day (who knows! maybe I'll get another one tomorrow!) and was able to write! I hope you enjoy this one, and I'm sorry it's shorter than my usual stuff, but stay tuned for more, as I've got two other drafts I'm determined to finish this evening with a nice, warm chocolate chip cookie skillet. Please review!! xx

_“Flashback to my mistakes,_

_My rebounds, my earthquakes_

_Even in my worst lies, you saw the truth in me_

_And I woke up just in time_

_Now I wake up by your side_

_My one and only, my lifeline”_

– Dress, Taylor Swift

Since returning from the woods, Ressler could not help but feel that something was horribly wrong with Liz.

In the weeks after she woke from her coma he was constantly at her side, but she remained so cloistered, folding in upon herself like a paper crane, its ends deformed so as to resemble more of a vulture. She was cocooned, and he was terrified of the upcoming transformation. In the weeks since her return to DC, she was consumed with vengeance, and there was a darker, more sinister side of Liz that did not exist before.

At the same time, he could still reconcile this version of Liz with her old self. She sought out his eyes in that crumbling house, and even leaned into his touch as he comforted her.

He yawned, slipping beneath the covers. Worrying about Liz’s safety and well-being had become his number one hobby since the beginning of their partnership, so he forced himself to think of other things, and eventually he fell asleep. But once he allowed thoughts of her to pass his front door, he knew that she haunt his dreams.  

So he dreamt of the Liz from that house.

But whoever this Liz was, this disturbed, vengeful Liz, was not _his_ Liz. This Liz was not the tender, spirited Liz who he first met, and this Liz was certainly not Agnes’s mother. But then who was she? She was not Liz and yet she was; she was utterly mangled, the schism within her presenting the dichotomy. In his mind Ressler could view her from above the schism, one incarnation of her on either side. On the right was the Liz he loved; on the left was the Liz she became. And yet from above the gaping divide Ressler thought he could hear a muffled cry. He attempted to move closer, straining his hear to hear the muted sound, but he was rocked back, paralyzed. He could feel an intense pressure compounding upon his chest, a disastrous sense of foreboding.

He shuddered awake, heart pounding as he inhaled the crisp morning air from his bedroom window. The strong breeze ruffled the linen curtains, and the whistling of the wind was demented, sounding as though the musician were off-key. That dreadful foreboding had returned with a vengeance, and Ressler could not help but feel the inevitable coming of a terrible reckoning.

He sighed, stretching his arms above his head as the sinew of his back rippled. Liz was beyond his reach now, and he had to wait for her to approach him. He could only hope that she would eventually seek him out, as she had always done. He could not imagine the consequences if she refrained.

-

She finally caved on a Sunday at twilight. It was sleeting and the sky languidly darkened from an oozing sanguine to a ghoulish gray, the darkness – black as the Pit – grazed the edge of the horizon; the light vacillated between the last remnants of white and gray. She stood before him utterly wet and irrevocably small. Her eyes – usually so vivid in color – were bereft; he had not seen her this desolate since she first woke.

“Ressler,” she whispered, her bottom lip trembling. “I can’t.”

Her voice was jagged and it sliced him completely; his arms widened in sanctuary for her to rest her head upon his chest. He guided her to the couch, and once they sat down she burrowed herself into him, so lost in her head that the feverish curling and uncurling of her fingers at the collar of his shirt was her only connection to the present. She began to sob great, choking noises as she withered within his arms. He just held her, his hands lazily rubbing circles on her back in an attempt to ease its tension. He said nothing; he knew the sound of the silence was more profound than any words he had to offer. They sat together for a while, the colors of the sky long swallowed by the increasing darkness.

Eventually, she lurched backwards, immediately creating space between them, her eyes widening. He furrowed his brow, his eyes filling with concern.

“Liz?” he asked.

Her breath hitched as she heard her name, and she felt that former version of herself crack through her visage, peering out at the only truly good man in her life.

“You wouldn’t want to touch me Ress,” she said, her voice hoarse and small.

She paused.

“The things I’ve done.”

Ressler leaned forward, taking her hands in his own. She reluctantly allowed him, and he ran his thumbs across the back of her palms.

“Everyone does bad things Liz. That doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re a bad person. The difference is in seeking an out, and the fact that you’re here shows that.”

She shook her head vigorously.

“No, Ress you don’t understand!” she protested, her voice heightening in panic. “I killed people.”

He could see that she was preparing herself for rejection and contempt, and that glimpse of his Liz was beginning to retreat into the depths of her sordid self.

“Me too,” he confessed.

Her eyes widened, her face softening into that familiar, compassionate complexion.

There was a blatant absence of light in his sitting room, their faces both illuminated by the moon. She looked purer in the moonlight, softer, like she did on the first day they met all those years ago. He grabbed her hand and stood up, leading her to his room. He slid on the covers, guiding her under as well. She shifted closer to him, entangling their legs while still holding onto his hand.

There, shrouded in the coveted darkness, they took turns confessing their sins, drifting off to sleep under the solemn gaze of the moon.  


End file.
